


I Loved, and I Loved (And I Lost You)

by GoldenDaydreams



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Reincarnation, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Temporary Character Death, The Skellige Isles (The Witcher), Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25832347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/pseuds/GoldenDaydreams
Summary: Three days, maybe four—that is as long as anyone ever lasts if they’re bonded when their soulmate dies.Geralt manages to lift his shirt on day four. His cluster of dandelions are still as vibrant a yellow as the day he met Jaskier and they bloomed to full colour. He sobs, touching the mark. It isn’t right, it should be devoid of colour as Jaskier is of life.AKA; Jaskier dies, and Geralt has to continue to live.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Cerys an Craite, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 91
Kudos: 966
Collections: (GG) Witcher





	I Loved, and I Loved (And I Lost You)

When Jaskier dies, a part of Geralt dies with him. The pain isn’t just an ache, but an agony unlike anything he’s ever known. He holds the bard in his arms, rocks him like he used to rock Ciri when she was smaller, younger, shouting out from nightmares and afraid to go to sleep again. 

He doesn’t want Jaskier to be scared. 

. 

Destiny. It’s the only thing that can explain the fact that as vast and wide as the continent is, it’s Eskel that comes across him, kneeling by the open grave he’d dug. 

Eskel curses softly, staring into the grave as he kneels down next to Geralt. 

There is nothing to be said. 

His soulmate is dead. 

He too will die. 

He’d always worried that he would die first, leave Jaskier lingering for the days of grief before his broken heart would take him. Worried that his life as a witcher would cut Jaskier’s life short. 

It had. Just not in the way he had expected. 

.

Eskel buries Jaskier. 

Geralt can’t bear to watch. 

.

Three days, maybe four—that is as long as anyone ever lasts if they bonded when their soulmate dies.

Geralt manages to lift his shirt on day four. His cluster of dandelions are still as vibrant a yellow as the day he met Jaskier and they bloomed to full colour. He sobs, touching the mark. It isn’t right, it should be devoid of colour as Jaskier is devoid of life. 

Denial has him removing the stones from the dirt, digging with his hands, and shoving Eskel off of him when Eskel tries to stop him. 

If his flowers have colour, Jaskier must still live, their bond still true. 

“He’s gone,” Eskel grabs him again, pulls Geralt back with all his might. 

They fight. Really, truly fight. Geralt had never fought Eskel like this. Not with true intent to hurt. They’re both bloody and bruised by the end. 

“You can dig him up-” Eskel spat a mouthful of blood on the grass, “—but he’s still going to be dead. I wish he weren’t, Melitele knows I wish it weren’t so, but he’s gone, Geralt.” 

Eskel is right. Geralt tests the body with silver, but there is no reaction. There is nothing at play, no trick. 

In the morning Jaskier is still in the ground—and for some reason, Geralt is still alive. 

.

He joins Eskel on the path. Or maybe it’s Eskel who joins him. 

“You keep leaving your left side wide open,” Eskel says as they sit at the fire, crickets chirping but otherwise the woods are quiet. 

Maybe his fighting has gotten a little sloppy lately. Who could blame him?

Eskel, obviously. 

“Keep fighting like that, and you’re going to get hurt.” 

Geralt doesn’t think that sounds like a bad thing. 

.

It’s Eskel that gets hurt. 

Gets hurt protecting Geralt’s left side.

Geralt doesn’t allow himself the luxury of a sloppy hunt. 

He’s already lost Jaskier, he can’t lose Eskel too. 

.

“Maybe it’s the mutations,” Geralt says two months after Jaskier died. He doesn’t know a witcher that’s ever met their soulmate. Maybe the mutations ensure he keeps the colour, keeps him alive. 

Eskel nods. “Could be.” 

They travel together, camp together, hunt together, collect contracts together. It’s so vastly different from travelling with Jaskier. They make better time, they’re effective, efficient. It’s quiet. 

It’s so fucking quiet.

.

Summer bleeds into fall, and when the leaves start falling, they travel to Kaer Morhen. There, he greets his family; Vesemir at the gates, Lambert near the doors, Yennefer’s face crumples when she looks at him, her lessons ending as Ciri shoots out of her chair and runs right into him.

His child hugs him so tight he feels guilty for every messy hunt, every time he wished the Gods to strike him down too. She still needs him. Her grief is different from Geralt’s, but no less all consuming. She’d loved Jaskier and lost him as Geralt had. 

They sit together, near a fire inside the old walls. She talks of Jaskier, brings up memories he could barely stand on his own, but it’s different with her. She speaks with such fondness, such longing. “I was so hungry, I ate the whole bag of nuts,” she says with tears in her eyes, and laughter in her voice. “And he called me Pistachio for the next three months.” 

She grieves, but remembers, speaks of him so true that for a minute he forgets he’s gone, and there will be no new memories made. 

Ciri’s love and grief is pure. 

He thinks he has a lot to learn from her. 

.

Lambert avoids him most of the winter, but still eyes him like a puzzle he can’t figure out. They’re in the second half of winter when Geralt outright asks what his problem is. 

It’s not like Lambert to bite his tongue, but he does in the moment that stretches as he tries to find the right words—a difficult task for a man who’s never much cared about being tactful. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, toeing one of his boots into the ground. “He’s gone, and it sucks.” 

It’s ineloquent, but Geralt feels the weight of what Lambert is saying. 

Lambert raises a bottle. “Want a drink?”

They have one, then two, then three. They pour one out for Jaskier, and both sit in silence with their grief. 

.

He goes through the motions. Spends time with Vesemir, teaches Ciri, trains with Eskel and Lambert. It’s familiar and yet he feels a hollow where Jaskier should be. 

He’s getting better, and it makes him feel worse. 

.

When the snow melts enough to safely return to the path, Yennefer portals in to take over Ciri’s education. It’s hard to watch them leave. He knows he will see them again, but the absence hits harder than usual. 

Eskel has both Roach and Scorpion ready for the road by the time he joins him at the stables. 

“Ready?” Eskel asks. 

“Yeah.” 

They don’t talk about staying together on the road, it just happens. 

Eskel still looks wary. 

Geralt thinks it’s a good idea to have someone around, a visible reminder that he can’t let his grief get the best of him, there are still people who need him. 

. 

Geralt gets a message when they are travelling through Novigrad, it’s been sitting there a while. Crach An Craite requesting assistance, wraiths, something Skelligers can’t just hack at until it’s dead. 

He could go alone. It seems a natural point to split, to stand on his own, figure out how to return to the path with just Roach again. 

He rejoins Eskel at the tavern, shoves the letter over, but can’t find the words to separate. 

“You know,” Eskel says, his eyes still on the page, “I’ve never been to Skellige.” 

Just like that it’s settled. They’re going together. 

.

Eskel gets sea sick. 

Geralt can’t stop laughing. 

.

When they reach Ard Skellig, Eskel sits down on the ground, and glares at the sea like it personally offended him. Geralt sits with him, the water is nice, relaxing. 

_We could head to the coast. Get away for a while._

It hits him like that, out of no where. Days when he’s doing fine until he thinks of something Jaskier said, or sung, or gets a taste of fresh bread, or the sun hits the morning dew on a flower in such a way that he knew the bard would appreciate the beauty of it only he’s not here to see—

Eskel turns away, and Geralt gets a partial view of the thorny rose on his neck, knows that it dips and twists around his shoulder, an unfulfilled soulmark, representing a soulmate who might have already lived and died without Eskel ever crossing their paths. Geralt wonders if Eskel longs for his soulmate. 

Geralt hadn’t given his soulmate thought before Jaskier—and hasn’t given anyone else a thought since. 

.

They meet with Crach An Craite, he’s a good man. Geralt knows he’s not going to get stiffed money, they’ll be put up in comfortable rooms, fed well. No one will be spitting at them in the streets. Witchers are a little more respected in Skellige than the continent. Gods knew the isles respected strength and bravery more than anything, and Witchers had both in spades. 

“Fuckin’ wraiths,” Crach said. “Half a dozen men wounded or killed. We need them gone.”

They agree to head out in the morning. Crach is polite enough not to mention the fact that Eskel still looks a little green. 

.

A hot breakfast warms them with Skellige hospitality, and once they are both in armour, and armed, they meet Crach in his office. He isn’t alone. A woman with him, same red hair though long and braided, pale faced freckled from the sun, shiny light scars from old wounds, none deep. Her armour is light, and she wears a short sword on her hip. 

He realizes that he’s met her before, when she’d only been a wee child, but her resemblance to her father was still close enough for him to know who she is. Cerys An Craite has grown up well. 

She has an easy smile for her father, one that falters when she looks to them. 

At first, he thinks the expression is fear, a reaction he is used to, but not one she’d had as a child. After a second, Geralt realizes she isn’t looking at him at all, but at Eskel. At Eskel who is still so self-conscious of the deep scars down the right side of his face. 

Geralt might have snapped if the woman hadn’t taken a timid step forward, pointing to her neck. “Your mark.”

Geralt looks to Eskel, who touches his own mark, but can’t see it. The petals Geralt had always assumed would colour red should Eskel ever find his soulmate instead are a soft pink that fade into yellow at the tips, vines and leaves a deep healthy green, strong and sharp. 

Eskel looks three seconds from complete panic, and Cerys is pulling away the neck of her armour to take a peek down. It’s almost comedic considering Crach slaps his hand on his face. “Cerys, for the respect of the Gods-”

“I was just double checking, Da!” she sounds so delighted, letting her armour fall back into place. 

Eskel turns on his heel and leaves without a word. 

Geralt gets a front row seat to Cerys’ heart breaking. 

.

It takes a little over an hour, but Geralt finds Eskel standing at the docks, looking out at the sea, squinting like he might just see the continent and be transported back if he looks hard enough. He tenses at Geralt’s approach, shoulders bunching like he’s trying to hide the bloom of colours on his neck. “We should leave, return to the continent. We could send Lambert to deal with the Wraiths.”

Geralt rests his forearms on the railing, leans against it as he stares out at the sea, an easier conversation to have not looking at one another.

“Is this because of…” he trails off, thinking of those bandits in the woods, ones who hated Witchers so—the way Jaskier had moved so easily, spoke with a friendliness, not a care in the world, defended Geralt with the ease of breathing, and the three arrows Geralt couldn’t protect him from. Of all the things that had been threat to their lives, some common men Geralt had underestimated had been their downfall, his bard left open and defenseless. “Because of what happened with Jaskier?”

Eskel rubs his neck, Geralt wonders if he knows it’s where the flower is. 

“Walking away isn’t going to change the fact that she’s human,” Geralt says. “Doesn’t change that she’s your soulmate either.” 

Eskel paced away a few steps. Planted his hands on his hips. Kicked at the dirt a bit. Geralt gives him space, redirecting his attention to the sea, some of the smaller boats out with Skelligers fishing. 

“I don’t want you hurt.” 

Geralt turns at the pain in his brother’s voice. Ah, of course. Eskel would be that kind of idiot, to forgo his own happiness so it wouldn’t be rubbed in Geralt’s face that he has a soulmate, alive and breathing. 

“And I don’t want you to turn away your soulmate out of some misguided attempt to spare my feelings.” Geralt waits it out, can tell when the words finally settle, Eskel’s shoulders dropping a little. “You deserve happiness, Eskel.” _For however long the Gods let you have it._

He thinks of the first days with Jaskier, still trying to push him away, still so unsure of the feelings blooming in his chest. The way Jaskier danced around his concerns, his barbs, his guard, and planted himself inside Geralt’s heart. He wouldn’t give up his days with the bard for anything, and knows that if Eskel lets down his reservations, he too will know true happiness. 

Geralt pushes away from the railing. “Cerys is our guide to where the wraiths are. Are you coming?”

“Fuck,” Eskel mutters. “ _Yes_.”

.

The wraiths are dealt with, no easy task, but it’s done. Cerys still sits on a stump where they left her safely behind. Jaskier never stayed put, always inched closer, wanting to see the action, not just hear about it. 

Cerys gives them both a quick look over, neither of them are injured, and she must find it pleasing for she smiles, and stands. “All dealt with I take it.” 

“It’s done,” Eskel replies. 

“Good. It’ll be nearing sundown by the time we get back, we’re going to want to get moving too, feels like a storm is coming.” 

Geralt isn’t going to argue with a Skelliger about the weather on their isle. 

“You’re coming for dinner, right?” she asks them, but her eyes linger on Eskel. 

They end up staying for three months. 

.

When they return to the continent, the path is the same. 

Same monsters. 

Same humans. 

And yet, the path is different. 

Eskel is lighter. His mark is bright and bold. 

Eskel is heavier. He’s left his heart on the shores of Skellige.

.

Jaskier sits across the fire from him like he has a hundred times before. He tunes his lute, his long fingers pause a moment, and he sits a little straighter. “Geralt, I have a splendid idea!”

“Doubtful,” Geralt replies, setting the two rabbits over the fire to cook. 

“I think we should go to Novigrad.” 

Geralt sighs. “Why Novigrad?”

“Better wine than the swill they serve out here, I’ll tell you that much,” Jaskier says, his fingers returning to the task of tuning his lute. “Not to mention my wardrobe has seen better days.” 

It’s familiar but distant. 

It’s a dream.

He hates the thought, hates how knowing it’s a dream starts to make it fade. He tries to convince himself he’s still sleeping, tries to hold onto the image of Jaskier that has been fading, wishes to hold to the sound of his voice, to the way his fingers moved just so when fiddling with his lute. 

For a moment, Jaskier had felt close enough to touch. 

In the space between dreams and wakefulness he swears he hears Jaskier’s soft whisper against his ear, _“oh, sweet wolf, I’m closer than you think.”_

There are tears on his cheeks when he fully wakes, the dream already hazy around the edges. He thinks about the shade of blue of Jaskier’s eyes, the easy smile, the way he enunciated certain words, or would drag Geralt’s name out playfully. 

He touches the dandelions on his hip, digs his fingers into the flesh there like if he holds on tight enough, he can keep the fading memories a little longer. 

.

In the late fall, Geralt and Eskel go to Novigrad. Yennefer had agreed to portal with Ciri there. The four of them spend the day in the city. They share a large suite with two rooms, and a common space with a roaring fireplace. 

Ciri is sleeping, curled into Geralt’s side. Soon she’ll be too old to want to cuddle up to him, he holds onto these soft, precious moments knowing they are fleeting. 

Eskel’s posture says meditating, but the way his shoulders keep shifting says he’s thinking too much. 

Yen is halfway through a bottle of wine, her cheeks rosy from it. “So, tell me about them.” She extends a leg to poke Eskel in the thigh with her toes. 

Eskel huffs out a breath, but gives up on the illusion of meditation. “Her name is Cerys.”

“An Craite?”

“You know her?” Eskel asked. 

Yennefer burst out laughing, nearly spilling the glass of wine. “I had a brief affair with her father before she was born.” She giggles a bit. “I have met both of his children in years after, not any time recently though. Ah-oh, has it really been over a decade since I’ve been to Skellige?” She takes a sip of her wine. “How old would Cerys be now? Still young, robbing the cradle, are we?”

“She’s twenty winters,” Eskel manages to say in both defense and pain. 

“When are you going visiting?”

“I don’t know,” Eskel replies.

Yennefer frowns, turns to Geralt. They’ve come a long way in their friendship. The two of them can speak without words. Her brows furrow, and she tips her head just slightly in Eskel’s direction. _What the fuck is wrong with him, Geralt?_

He sighs, and mindful of Ciri, he doesn’t shrug, but does roll his eyes. _Idiot._

“I could open a portal to Skellige in the morning,” Yennefer offers. 

Eskel stays quiet, but his tell is his thumb tapping against his thigh. He’s considering it. Geralt’s heard the excuses: ‘she’s so young’, ‘she’s going to want something more than the life I could give,’ ‘I’m a Witcher, for fuck sake, can’t give her children, or family, or home. We have the path, that’s it. It’s too-’

Eskel never finished that tangent, but Geralt knows. 

It’s too dangerous. 

Eskel has never been afraid of much, but by the Gods, he fears his soulmark and everything that comes with it. 

But his thumb keeps tapping. 

.

Eskel takes the portal to Skellige. 

Geralt and Ciri take a portal to Kaer Morhen. 

He knows it’s for the best, but it’s strange to be away from Eskel after travelling for so long together. 

.

Winter comes and goes. 

This year, Geralt makes his way down the path with Lambert, though they part ways at the bottom of the mountain. 

It’s just him and Roach again. 

It’s lonely.

.

Spring hits him with a field full of dandelions. 

His heart _aches._

Roach nudges him him forward a step, and he stumbles but keeps moving. 

He has to keep moving. 

.

Forktail. 

Numerous Drowners.

Rotfiend. 

A couple harpies. 

Werewolf. 

He does his job. He gets paid. He moves on. 

.

“I miss Ciri,” he says to Roach in absence of a human to talk to. “I miss Eskel. Wonder how things played out with him and Cerys.” He sighs. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss Lambert.” 

Roach nudges him gently, and he feeds her an apple. 

He misses Yennefer, and Vesemir too. 

He misses Jaskier most of all, an absence that, not even in the winter, is ever filled. 

.

Novigrad has become annual. He gets there a day before Yennefer is due there with Ciri. He wanders the city after he gets Roach stabled. By the docks he sees two familiar figures disembarking. 

Eskel grabs hold of one of the dock’s pillars, hugs it. Cerys’ head tips back as she laughs. Eskel reaches for her, and she reaches back, their hands linked their bodies drawing closer, and Geralt looks away a smile on his face. Looks like Eskel managed to work out his issues all on his own. 

He hears his name called out over the water, and the workers. They were walking toward him, their hands still entwined. He gives a small nod in greeting, but Eskel releases Cerys to pull him into a bone crushing hug. When he’s finally released he’s hugged once again, this time by Cerys. 

She smells of the sea, pine needles, and a little of Eskel—that smoke and magic that lingers on him. “It’s good to see you, Geralt,” she says, warm and friendly, steps back, giving him space but immediately infringing on Eskel’s, though it’s clearly welcomed. 

“I invited her to Kaer Morhen this year,” Eskel says. “Sent word to Vesemir already.” 

“I’m excited,” Cerys says. “It’ll be fun.”

“The climb is dangerous,” Eskel says firmly. 

Cerys blows a raspberry. “That’s what makes it fun, silly.”

Eskel sighs, the three of them start to walk together. “How has your year been, Geralt?” 

“Uneventful, yours?”

“Spent spring up in Kovir, made my way down to Redania, hugged the coast where I could. In the summer took a boat from Cidaris to Skellige, took up a couple contracts there, coin was good, not often a witcher goes out to the isles so there wasn’t a shortage of jobs. Spent some time on boats.” 

“Hjalmar insists Eskel must find his sea legs,” Cerys says, she bumps her shoulder into Eskel. 

“I am the laughing stock of Skellige,” Eskel mutters mournfully. 

“Nonsense,” Cerys says, suddenly sharp. “You are strong, and brave, a man of honour… besides that drunk Kapchen is the laughing stock of Skellige. He steered his boat into a cliff _with a lighthouse_. He also ate enough savalweed that he hallucinated for three days straight, punched his mother, and tried to fuck a siren—or at least proclaimed he did while walking around the port without pants. I suppose he’s lucky to still have his cock after that round of frostbite.”

Geralt loses the battle to keep a straight face. 

. 

It’s the first year Geralt takes the path to Kaer Morhen with Ciri. Yennefer has always taken the child there by portal, but she isn’t so little anymore. He’s used to taking the path with only Roach; it’s different with Eskel, Cerys, and Ciri. The young women are talkative, but both graceful, neither slipping up on the ice, neither complains about the snow. 

The constant chatter is like white noise, reminds him a little of Jaskier. 

He misses the accompanying sounds of strings being plucked by skilled fingers. 

. 

Kaer Morhen has seen both life and death, love and loss. It comes and goes in waves. He’s happy they seem to currently be in a time of life and love. Ciri and Lambert run around the courtyard throwing snowballs at one another. Cerys and Eskel fight like it’s foreplay. 

Geralt reads of days long past from one of the old journals he has tucked in a locked chest at the end of his bed. He traces the curves and loops of a ‘G’ in Jaskier’s intricate hand. Jaskier wrote with such detail Geralt feels like he’s back in the moment again, his heart by his side. 

.

Yennefer joins them in the middle of winter. It’s rare, but not unheard of for her to pop in for a few days before she tires of the drafty castle, and the men in it. 

She spends time with Ciri, who is delighted by her surprise return. Meals at the long harvest table seem more lively, like a part of their family had been missing and now had slipped back into place. 

Late into the third night at Kaer Morhen, she finds him in the library. For a while they speak over one of the large maps pinned to a table. She points out some of Nilfgaard movements, they weren’t dangerous to them, not yet, but had the potential to be a problem in the spring if they continued their movements north. 

The scent of lilac and gooseberries is soft and familiar, comforting in a way nothing else is. Her hand brushes against his, and he knows if he moves it she won’t say a word, nothing will change. He stays still. 

“It’s been years, and yet, you still look so lonely,” she whispers, illuminated by the candles burning low. 

His heart aches. “Don’t. Not now.” 

She must understand for she doesn’t say anything of Jaskier, his grief, or his loneliness again. They kiss as the candles burn out. Their clothes become a pile on the floor. In the darkness, he doesn’t have to see how bright yellow his soulmark still is. Even though she can’t see it, her hands don’t go anywhere near it. 

It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this. Not since—

Her touch is distracting, quiets his mind, makes his blood race. 

She’s warm, wet, welcoming. Her breath hitches when he lifts her from the table, legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck. He lets himself float in the pleasure, listening to her soft, cut off moans. The sensation peaks as her nails drag down his back. 

They hold each other tighter in those moments after. 

Two souls adrift. 

When they get dressed, nothing has changed. 

They are still friends. Nothing more. 

.

Geralt hates spring. Spring means being alone. Spring means quiet. Spring means fields of dandelions. 

.

He crosses paths with Eskel late in the summer. It hadn’t been planned, and is a welcome surprise. They sit together in a tavern, recanting the more exciting hunts they’d been on since separating. Ale, a warm meal, and a few rounds of gwent made for a good night. 

“I’m going to stay in Skellige this winter,” Eskel says. 

Geralt understands, is happy for his brother even if he will miss Eskel during those long months, and who knows how long after when they return to the path. 

“We’re still trying to figure this whole thing out. I… I’m built for the path, and she’s a Skelliger, got sea water in her blood.” Eskel sighs. “Wintering there makes sense, but it’s only one season. She’s got it half in her mind to join me on the path.” He rubs his hand over the rose on his neck. “I reckon it’s going to be a long conversation this winter.” 

“Skelligers do sea raids from the time they’re sixteen, and they don’t treat their daughters any different than their sons. She’s not some sheltered princess. She’ll handle herself, doubt she’s in any more danger with you than she is on the isles.” 

Eskel frowns. “Why does it feel like a battle I’ve already lost.” 

Geralt remembers trying to get Jaskier to leave him, to stay behind, to be safe, and sighs. “Because you already have.”

.

Winter is odd without Eskel. Yennefer doesn’t visit. Jaskier is forever an hollow space in his chest. It’s just Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt and Ciri in the old halls. Ciri’s face has lost some of it’s softness, she’s taller, has developed a sharper tongue. She holds her own against Lambert with a sword, and has a measure of control over her powers. 

He had missed the point when she stopped being his little girl. She’s a bit more distant. She doesn’t curl up against his side when they sit by the fire, she doesn’t ask him to read for her anymore. However, she’s smart, funny, and tells stories of her travels with Yennefer. Their relationship has shifted, but is in no way less. 

When he leaves in the spring, she hugs him tight like Eskel does, like she’s trying to imprint the hug on his bones. 

He hugs her back just as tight. 

.

Geralt gets injured, and the wounds are bad enough that he needs help. He misses Jaskier, misses Eskel, misses having someone at his side. It’s stupid. He spent so long alone, and survived just fine. Maybe that is the difference, he survived alone, but Gods, he _lived_ with Jaskier. 

He manages to stagger to Roach, leans on the horse while he musters the will to climb onto the saddle. He could lay down. He could die here. Witchers die fighting monsters. He fought, he is gravely injured, it’s as honourable a death as his kind get. 

_”Geralt, shit, oh fuck, that’s a lot of blood.”_

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. Jaskier isn’t here. It’s nothing more than a memory. He can practically feel fingers trembling along the wounded skin. 

_You need a healer. This is beyond me—DON’T PASS OUT! Don’t you fucking dare! Get on Roach, come on, work with me, get on Roach.”_

He manages. Barely. Only bothers because Jaskier would be so _disappointed_ if he just gave up and died. 

Roach moves like she knows he can’t stand being jostled. It’s a slow pace but he’s not that far from the settlement. He sees it, but his vision is getting blurry, he hears someone shout and—

.

“They came after me/ With masterful deceit/ Broke down my lute/ And they kicked in my teeth—”

“Keep singing that, and I’ll kick in your teeth.” 

Jaskier let out a gasp and held his hand over his heart. “You wound me, sweet wolf. You know, that song has ensured us hearty meals, and warm beds.” 

They’re laying on bedrolls by a fire. The moon and the stars are out in a beautiful tapestry. He half expects Jaskier to wax poetic about it. Jaskier curls into Geralt’s chest, rests his chin on Geralt’s chest as he stares. 

“What?” Geralt asks after a long silence. 

Jaskier just reaches above Geralt’s head and plucks a dandelion, tucks it behind Geralt’s ear with a soft smile. “I love you so much.” 

His heart aches. He wants to say it back, but the words are trapped in his throat. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that Jaskier is going to leave. He wants to hold Jaskier, to keep him, to tell him to stay. 

He wakes in a small house that smells of burning sage. 

He’ll live. 

Everything hurts, but he’ll live. 

.

Late in the fall, he makes his way to Novigrad, and is the last one there. The weather is already turning colder, and Cerys predicts an earlier winter. They say their goodbyes to Yennefer, who promises to visit sometime in the season. 

The four of them travel, hunt, and camp together. Cerys is good with a bow, and in the hour before sunset, she takes time to give Ciri some pointers. They eat rabbit, and some stale bread for dinner. The bedrolls are laid as close to the fire as possible, and the four of them sleep all bundled up together for warmth. 

In the morning, there is a fine layer of frost over the grass, and there are nothing but cooling embers in their fire pit. 

Geralt shifts, feels his actual age. Ciri makes a little sound of discontent and opens her eyes. The four of them are a little slow as Ciri and Cerys pack up the camp while Geralt and Eskel tend to the horses. 

It’s quiet and easy as they return to the road. Geralt on Roach while Ciri seems to be practicing her footing with little jumps and twirls, constantly moving forward, it’s entirely too much energy for so early, but she seems content enough. Cerys sits on Scorpion while Eskel leads the aging horse onward. 

It’s Eskel who notices first. Both stops Scorpion, and grabs Ciri’s arm in one motion. It’s enough to make Geralt pay attention. There is the scent of fire, and blood. There is a small, weak cry in the distance. _Fuck._

He wonders if it’s a settlement, burned to the ground. He gets off Roach and wordlessly guides Ciri to her. She understands. 

“What is it?” Cerys says, unwilling to be left out of the loop. 

“Death,” Eskel mutters. 

“If there are still forces around, you two take the horses and—”

“Oh fuck that,” Cerys says, clearly offended. 

Eskel grabs her hand, and it’s enough for her attention to shift to him. “Keep Ciri safe.”

Cerys huffs out a breath. “You say it like she can’t hold her own.”

“I’m seventeen,” Ciri mutters.

“Please,” Eskel says softly. 

Cerys nods then, sits a little straighter. They continue on, Eskel and Geralt out front, listening for anyone who might still be around. 

Geralt only hears the infrequent, but heartbreaking cries. 

It turns out, it’s not a settlement, but a convoy of merchants that were attacked. There are bodies spread out around the multiple carts, a few dead horses, the carts themselves had likely been picked clean of goods, and had been set on fire—like the bandits hadn’t wanted anything they couldn’t take with them to be useful to anyone else. 

“Is anyone still alive?” Ciri asks, her knuckles white on the reins. 

A soft hiccuping sob comes from somewhere up ahead. 

Cerys is off Scorpion before Eskel can stop her, but he grabs her arm before she gets far. “Eskel, that’s a child!” She pulls away, and he follows her. Ciri is off Roach now, and Geralt frowns at her as the four of them follow the sound. 

The child is small, eyes wide with fear. Likely only survived because the bandits weren’t so heartless as to be able to kill a defenseless child, left it for nature to take it’s course. The child trembles, but doesn’t move, just cries, more tears leaving tracks on their dirty face. 

Cerys kneels. “It’s okay,” she says, slowly extending a hand. “You’re safe now, it’s okay.” The child doesn’t move, either scared still, or accepting fate. She picks the child up, cradles them to her chest, their face hiding against her neck. Cerys continues speaking in soft, soothing tones. 

“Let’s see if there is anything we can use, or is of any value,” Geralt says to Ciri. She frowns, but nods. Survival sometimes means doing things they don’t really want to. 

Geralt finds a ring that will fetch a good bit of coin in one of the bigger cities. Ciri finds a crate that didn’t quite burn that had had a few bottles of wine, and some dried foods. They took what they could fit in the saddlebags.

He notices the absence of crying, turns to see that the child has grown limp in sleep, still secure in Cerys’ arms. He overhears them speaking softly. 

“He can’t stay with us,” Eskel says. 

“We’re not leavin’ the kid,” Cerys has a little fire in her voice, one that says it’s not a battle she’s willing to yield in. 

“We’ll find an orphanage-”

“And just abandon them?”

Eskel sighs. “It’s not abandoning-”

“What do you call it then?”

“Giving them a chance!” 

“Why can’t _we_ give them a chance?” 

“Cerys-”

“You keep trying to set me aside, tell me all the things you can’t give me, I’m starting to think you just don’t want to.”

“Cer-”

“Do you love me or not? Do you want a family with me or not?” 

Eskel is silent. 

“We don’t have orphanages in Skellige. You find a child, you raise them. Freya sent us here, I’m not about to disobey the will of the Mother Goddess. You make your own choice.” 

Geralt feels guilty for eavesdropping. The quiet is tense. Eskel helps Cerys keep her balance while getting on Scorpion with her hands full of the sleeping child. Geralt guides Ciri back to Roach, realizes she’s holding a small doll that smells of smoke. 

The rest of the days ride is done in silence. 

In the evening, as they prepare to camp for the night, Cerys gets the child- a boy that she estimates is around three, cleaned up the best they can, and wrapped up in some soft blankets. The child clings to Cerys, trembles when even Ciri tries to interact with him. 

Eskel returns from hunting with a few rabbits, and a new resolve. He passes the catch off to Geralt, and sits next to Cerys, slowly, like he’s afraid she’ll tell him to get lost. She doesn’t. She’s patient, and watching. 

“I don’t know how to be a father.” 

Cerys clucks her tongue. “You’re a good man, a caring man, you’ll do fine.”

Eskel doesn’t look sure, but he stays at Cerys’ side. 

.

Kaer Morhen is different with a child so young. 

The boy speaks a bit, enough to answer Cerys’ question of his name. Emeric. When she asks how old he is, he answers ‘three’ but holds up four fingers. 

He warms up to Ciri, who makes a bunch of funny faces while he’s safe in Cerys’ arms, the boy laughs and laughs—and odd sound in the castle that once only knew screams.

Emeric always stays close to Cerys, trails after her during the day, and cuddles up to her in the afternoons. 

Eskel gives them space. 

. 

The wind whistles, trees creak, the storm outside rages. Geralt is used to the periodic blizzards, but is a little annoyed by the draft snuffing the candles he’d been using for reading light.

Emeric runs by his chair, and directly into Eskel, hugs his leg, and hides his face against Eskel’s thigh. Eskel freezes for a long minute before carefully pulling the child’s arms off of his leg. He crouches. “It’s okay,” he says. The boy’s lip trembles, and Eskel scoops him up. 

Emeric falls asleep with his head on Eskel’s shoulder. 

Eskel somehow looks stronger than before. 

.

By the end of winter, Emeric is not only used to all of them, but sobs and reaches for Lambert when he goes to leave. While he’s typically the first out of Kaer Morhen, even he stays an extra two days, waiting for Yennefer to join them. 

Cerys and Emeric leave by portal to Skellige first, Geralt is sure they only avoided a meltdown because the child didn’t understand what was going on. Yennefer and Ciri leave next. The wolves of Kaer Morhen leave as a pack, and go their separate ways at the bottom of the mountain. 

.

He camps in a field of dandelions, keeps his eyes shut as he speaks, as he tells Jaskier of Eskel and Cerys’ love story, the bard would have gotten a kick out of it. He tells him of Emeric excitedly calling his name (‘Gee-alt!’) of drinking too much with Lambert, of how Ciri has grown, of Vesemir’s growing collection of poetry. 

He talks until his throat aches. 

Talks like he should have when Jaskier could still hear him. 

.

After so many years, he thinks that his grief should be gone. It’s not, it’s not as sharp, not threatening to cut him open every time he breathed, but a dull blade used often enough can still cause damage. 

. 

It isn’t until winter that he finds out how close they’d been to losing Lambert—a hunt that had gone horribly wrong, how lucky he’d been that a sorceress had come along. Keira Metz had undeniably saved his life, and Lambert complained about owing her. 

.

Another year passes, and this time when he leaves Kaer Morhen in the spring, Ciri is at his side. 

.

Late in the fall, Geralt and Ciri take a ship to Skellige. They’d been invited early in the year for Eskel and Cerys’ hand-fasting ceremony. Ciri delights in the sea, in the rocking of the boat, in learning what she can from the Skelligers. 

When the boat reaches the shore it’s late in the evening. They make a brief stop at a barber because Ciri says Geralt’s beard is getting out of control. Once his hair meets Ciri’s critical eye, they make the trek to Kaer Trolde. 

“Crach!” Ciri rushes to the man, who hugs her so tight she’s lifted right off the ground. 

“Cirilla!” He laughs as he sets her back on her feet. “Good to see you well, child.”

“I’m nineteen—”

“An infant—”

“I’m fully grown—”

“Barely weaned—”

“Crach!”

He laughs once more, but gives her a good look over. “I suppose your right, I’m getting old.”

She squints, and nods. “Hmm, yep, getting some grey in your beard.”

He plants his hands on his hips, eyes still playful. “You think all those years with witchers would have taught you some respect.”

“Nah.” She looks to Geralt. “They’re all attitude and spite.”

He smiles. “She’s right.” 

.

The ceremony is at dawn, and is a far bigger affair than Geralt imagines his brother is comfortable with.

Cerys has a few deep scars on the right side of her face, they’re new, and he’s sure to get the story before they leave. Her dress is red, and the heavy cloak she wears is black—An Craite colours. He wonders if magic was involved for the flower crown in her hair. 

Eskel looks much as he always does, his armour a little cleaner. A portion of his hair braided. His soulmark bright on his neck.

Emeric has grown, his dark hair long and curling a little by his ears. He’s dressed like a Skelliger, and stands beside Eskel, holding onto Eskel’s belt like he’s afraid to get lost in the mix of all the guests. 

As they speak their vows Geralt is happy for his brother, for the family he’s found. Ciri rests her head on Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m so happy for them,” she whispers as Eskel holds out his left hand, and Cerys holds it in her right.

Crach is the first one to tie their hands with a white ribbon. Emeric holds a red ribbon, and sticks out his tongue a little as he ties it around, certainly something he’d practiced for weeks leading up to the event. As Hjalmar loops his ribbon around their wrists, Crach walks over, hands Ciri a light blue ribbon, and Geralt one of silver. It’s an honour, and is treated as such. 

The couple won’t have a choice but to stay together all day with how bound they are, the ribbons overlapping and knotted. Neither looks bothered by the idea. 

.

The festivities last three days, and Geralt is still hungover on the fifth. 

.

Winter at Kaer Morhen is quiet, no Eskel, Cerys, or Emeric. 

Ciri bests Lambert in combat though, Yennefer frequently visits, Vesemir spends half the winter sleeping in the library. 

It’s quiet. 

Geralt reads all of Jaskier’s journals twice. 

.

A bard stops him and Ciri as they’re making their way through one of the small settlements near Novigrad. “You there, you’re the White Wolf!”

It’s better than the Butcher of Blaviken, but he thinks the moniker is mostly lost to time… and to the way Jaskier had sang his praises, burying his sins. 

“What of it?” Geralt asks, a little on edge. He’s more careful with Ciri travelling with him. 

“There is post waiting for you on the docks of Novigrad.” He raises his hands to ward off any questions. “I work there, as it turns out, people around here don’t appreciate the harp all that much.” 

“Hmm.” 

.

Ciri has a spelled necklace that allows Yennefer to keep tabs on them, it leaves the likelihood of the notice being left from Eskel or Lambert. They pick up the note, and read it by the docks. 

It’s from Eskel. There is a contract, two giants, and a request for aid. It’s unlike Eskel to ask for help, but then again, he didn’t have a wife and child before. In a way, Geralt understands, he became more cautious the moment Ciri ran into him, arms around his waist, holding him tight without fear. 

They rest the night, spend most of the day trying to find someone travelling to the isles, and board in the morning. 

.

The giants are a tough battle, even with two witchers and Ciri darting in and out of battle. The three of them sit around in the aftermath, Geralt and Eskel coming down from the potions they’d downed. The area smells a little of magic and smoke. 

They loot what is useful, and make their way back to town by dinner time. The coin is good, and they aren’t short a single coin from the man who’d posted the contract. Eskel insists that Geralt and Ciri split it. “Barely a reward after your travel expenses.” 

They make their way back to Kaer Trolde, and Cerys is outside, pacing, she doesn’t look any more relaxed when she sees them. 

“What’s wrong?” Eskel asks. 

“I told Emeric to be back before dark.” She glares at the sun setting over the sea. “He’s—right there!” The tension leaves her, but she plants her hands on her hips. “Cutting it close, lad!”

“Sorry, Ma!” Emeric darts out of the trees, and runs up the hill. “The sun is getting faster! Da! Did you get the giant?”

Eskel ruffles the kid’s hair. “Sure did.”

“Ciri! Uncle Geralt! You came!”

“Of course!” Ciri says. 

“Gonna tell me about the giants?” he asks her excitedly. 

“I’ll tell you everything.”

The kid cheers. 

.

Ciri doesn’t just tell Emeric about slaying the giant, but acts it out with his wooden sword in a particularly dramatic fashion. 

Geralt likes to think it’s something she retained from her time spent with Jaskier.

.

It’s in the early morning that he hears it. He’s barely awake, pushing around the porridge in his bowl. Eskel sits across from him, not looking any better off, rubbing sleep from his eye. Geralt catches sight of the braided ribbons now a bracelet, and undoubtedly ones from the hand-fasting. 

Emeric is wide awake though, with more energy than both Geralt and Eskel combined. The child stands on one bench and jumps to the next. He’s humming, and it takes a moment but the tune makes the hairs on Geralt’s arms stand on end. Eskel looks confused. 

It’s ‘Toss A Coin’ Geralt is sure of it. He hasn’t heard it since Jaskier passed. While some of Jaskier’s other songs became popular with bards, one that was about a particular Witcher from the perspective of a particular bard lived and died with Jaskier. 

“Did you teach him that?” Geralt asks Eskel, his heart aching. 

“No. I haven’t even heard it since—” he doesn’t say when, but Geralt knows. 

“Em, come here,” Eskel says. The boy jumps over to the bench Eskel is sitting on, nearly slips, but Eskel’s reflexes are fast enough that he steadies Emeric. “Where did you hear that song?”

“Umm…” the boy bites his lip, looks off to the side. “I made it up.”

He’s lying. He’s a terrible liar. 

Eskel remains patient. “Are you sure you didn’t hear it somewhere, it sounds familiar.”

Emeric smiles, his eyes lighting up. “You’re friends with the music man too?”

“Hmm, maybe,” Eskel says.

Emeric frowns, shifts, radiates nervous energy. “He told me not to sing his songs, that it wasn’t time yet.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dandelion because he always is near the ring of dandelions.” 

Geralt and Eskel make eye contact. 

“And where is the ring of dandelions?” Eskel asks. 

“It’s a secret.” 

“Kids aren’t allowed to have secrets like that,” Eskel says. “This man could be dangerous.” 

“He’s not,” Emeric insists. “He doesn’t even wear armour. He’s bright, like a target.” 

“You know your ma’s dagger? How it has a lot of stones in it, how it’s decorative and beautiful?” Eskel asks, and Emeric nods. “Beautiful things can be dangerous too.” 

Emeric frowns. “He’s my friend.” 

“He might be ours too. The song even has Geralt’s name in it, doesn’t it?”

The boy’s eyes light up as he looks to Geralt. “Yeah! It does! You must be Dandelion’s very best friend if he has a whole song about you.” 

“Will you show us where he is?” Geralt asks, his palms sweating. 

“’Kay,” the boy jumps down, and runs to the doors.

.

Emeric sprints ahead, stopping every once in a while to look over his shoulder, to make sure they’re following. 

“Doppler?” Eskel guesses. 

“After all this time?” Geralt doesn’t believe it. 

“Just… coincidence?” 

“Trick of a sorcerer?”

Eskel raised a brow. “You piss off a sorcerer lately?”

“Not that I can think of.” 

They walk off the beaten path, and into the trees. It’s quiet, peaceful, but he feels his medallion vibrate. Eskel must feel it too because he whistles sharply, and Emeric pauses until they catch up. 

“Are we close?” Eskel asks his son. 

Emeric doesn’t get a chance to answer before Geralt hears a voice. “Toss a coin to your Witcher/ O' Valley of Plenty/ O' Valley of Plenty, oh/ Toss a coin to your Witcher/ A friend of humanity-”

Geralt chases the song into a clearing that is warmer, where there is no trace of snow, but only of pretty flowers in the vibrant green grass, a ring of dandelions in the middle. 

A man sits upon a boulder, a fancy white and gold lute in his hands. His shirt is barely existent, nothing more than bright pink chiffon, and his black trousers are tight enough to be a second skin, and seem to have some kind of glittery fabric woven through. 

The man stops playing, his mouth open just slightly. “Geralt.” His name nothing more than a whisper on the wind. 

For as much as he looks and sounds like Jaskier, he’s different. His voice is deeper. His hair is a touch lighter, a crown of dandelions upon his head. His face is so similar it hurts, the curve of his upper lip so accurate, but his right eye is just too dark a shade of blue. His left eye haunts him. 

The first arrow had sunk into Jaskier’s left eye, the other two arrows to the chest were excess, he’d been dead before he’d hit the ground. 

“What the fuck,” Eskel mutters. 

“That’s a bad word, Da!” Emeric says. 

“Go,” Geralt orders them. 

“Geralt…” He can hear the concern in Eskel’s voice. Geralt’s hand twitches for his silver sword, but he won’t draw it in front of Emeric. 

“Go.”

“No, I don’t want to!” Emeric argues, but Eskel just picks him up. “Nooo! Dandelion!” 

Dandelion smiles sadly at Emeric. “It’s okay, I just need to talk to Geralt for a while.” 

Geralt waits until he can’t hear Eskel’s footsteps. The man—a fae if the way his wings flutter while setting aside his lute is any indication. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says like he can’t stew in the silence. “You have a new scar.” He points to his own face, tracing a line over his cheek. “I’d like to hear the story. I’d like to hear all of your stories.”

Geralt can’t bear it, not the way he looks, not the chatter, not the voice itself, it’s so _Jaskier._ His hand goes to the hilt of his sword and he pulls it free. 

The man doesn’t move, but his face crumples. “Silver is for monsters,” he says. “Do you think I’m a monster, Geralt?” 

“I think you’re wearing my friend’s face.” 

“First time I dreamed of you I was five,” Dandelion says. “I knew I was in Posada despite the fact I’d never even been outside of the Summerland. I played the lute though I’d never touched one. Knew you, sitting in the corner. Brooding.” 

“What are you?” Geralt asks, adjusting his grip. 

His wings flutter. “As advertised. Fae. Considering everything with the Wild Hunt, the Seelie court stays to the Summerland, stays out of this plane, but… I missed you.” 

“I don’t know you.”

“You do. I am him, a little different this time around, I admit.” His wings flutter again. “I’m still Jaskier. I’m still yours.”

Geralt stalks the fae like prey, and Dandelion takes a step back for every one Geralt takes forward. “Your mark is still on my thigh,” he blurts—a lucky guess of placement is all. “I bear the scars I wore in life, and the ones that took that life from me.” His left eye is blind, the lid, and just under the eye scarred in a line. 

“Who put you up to this?” he demands.

“Fae can’t reproduce naturally,” Dandelion says in a rush. “They grab souls they like, bright souls, musical souls, sharp-witted souls. We are the reborn.”

He shouldn’t, but he wants to believe. “Tell me something only Jaskier would know then.” 

Dandelion trips over a root, falls back, lands on his bottom, and tries to scurry back, his wings dragging on the forest ground. “The dandelions are low on your hip, almost indecently so.”

“You’re not the only one who knows that.” It’s uncommon knowledge, sure, but his brothers know, Yennefer knows. Half a dozen healers know. Whores he long ago frequented know. 

Fearful eyes stare up at him. “After the mountain, after the apology, you made love to me in a field of dandelions. You held me as I shook, as I cried, as I told you there is nothing more terrifying than that empty hole in my life where you should be.”

Geralt’s grip falters for a second, then readjusts. “Jaskier died eight years ago, you’re—”

“Twenty-ish. Time is faster in the Summerland.” 

“You know my mark. What is yours?” 

Instead of answering, he leans back onto his shoulders, wiggles his tight pants down until his thigh is exposed, and there it is, the soulmark—the profile of a howling white wolf. Jaskier had been delighted, based on it’s position, it looked like the wolf was howling at his cock, which Jaskier found endlessly entertaining. 

He wants to believe—he wants to believe so bad.

“Your soulmark is still coloured, isn’t it? You’re still here, haven’t died of the bond breaking.” He pulls his pants back up, sits up, and Geralt doesn’t stop him. “It didn’t happen because my soul is still here.” 

It made an odd kind of sense. 

“So, are you going to take back your humble bard?” He tilts his head. “Come on now, don’t leave a man with bread in his pants waiting.” 

The sword falls to the ground. 

The response is immediate. Jaskier is swift and agile, off the ground, and jumping into Geralt’s arms. They hold tight to each other in that magical clearing. “I’ve missed you, sweet wolf.”

.

They sit side by side on the boulder. It’s easier to speak without one party being threatened by a very dangerous sword. 

“Do you prefer Dandelion, or Jaskier?”

“I am both,” he responds. “I suppose I’m sentimental toward Jaskier, but will that be confusing? Surely people know I died.”

“Dandelion in public, Jaskier in private.” 

He rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “That sounds nice.”

“Why Skellige?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you come here?”

“Found an old ring in the Summerland, I didn’t choose where it grows on this side. Or at least—I don’t think I do.” He frowns. “I admit, I had very little idea of what I was doing.”

Geralt huffs out a breath. “Sounds about right.” 

“Hey!” He jumps up, wings fluttering. “Oh, how is Ciri?” 

“Good. Tall. Powerful.”

“I can’t wait to see her again. Eskel seems well. I heard a few stories through Emeric. How is Lambert, what of Vesemir?”

“They’re both fine.” 

He huffs out a breath. “And Yennefer?”

“She’s doing well, I see her a couple times a year.” 

He sits down next to Geralt once again. “It was strange, growing up, missing people I _knew_ , but hadn’t met, or had but… oh, you get it.” He turns to Geralt, opens his mouth like he’s about to say something only the words are lost. Jaskier reaches out slowly, gently touches the underside of his jaw, turning his head just so. 

Their lips meet, unhurried. A moment of welcome, of reacquaintance. Every motion is seamless, Jaskier’s body may be new, but their souls remember.

Jaskier straddles Geralt without every breaking their kiss. The weight of him is a little lighter than Geralt remembers, or maybe Jaskier’s new body is a little less muscled. He drags two fingers down Jaskier’s spine, and he shivers as he was always prone to. 

With eyes still shut, Jaskier makes quick work of the buckles on Geralt’s armour, removes it with practiced ease. Geralt isn’t sure how to get Jaskier’s fussy shirt off without ripping it, if he knew there was a replacement, he’d do it. Jaskier reaches around, pops two buttons at the back, and fists the fabric at the front letting it drift away from his body. 

He has two scars over his heart where his other body had been pierced with arrows. Geralt kisses the marks, his collarbone, his neck, holds him close and breathes him in, remembering holding Jaskier’s corpse, rocking him. 

“Oh, sweet wolf,” Jaskier cups his face with both hands, making Geralt look at him, exposed and vulnerable. Jaskier’s thumb brushes away a tear. “Our heart is whole again.” 

They end up stripped in that field, laying on a bed of soft flowers. They’ve been here before, a dozen places, a dozen ways, but _here_ , wrapped up in this immense love. 

Jaskier moves like water, each motion fluid and rhythmic. Every sound he makes is musical. Geralt is enraptured watching as Jaskier rides him with that oh-so-pleased grin on his face. 

Wings like soft gauze graze against his thighs. Geralt rests his hand over the soulmark on Jaskier’s thigh, and Jaskier’s head tips forward as he grinds down. Jaskier’s hands are planted on his chest for balance, but one trails down to his hips, presses against that cluster of dandelions, and Geralt throbs. 

He is whole, and he is falling apart. 

Jaskier puts him back together again, better than before. 

.

They clean up as well as they can before getting dressed. Geralt makes note of how Jaskier puts the chiffon shirt on so he can get a proper understanding of how to take it off later. 

He passes Jaskier his cloak. “You’re going to freeze without it once we leave the clearing.”

Jaskier takes it, burrows in it until just his eyes are visible. “Are you sure I should rejoin you, you might want to explain to Eskel first.” 

“He’ll trust me,” Geralt says. 

He doesn’t want to part again, doesn’t think he’d survive it. 

.

Emeric is delighted that ‘Dandelion’ is unscathed. 

Eskel is understandably confused. Twitchy as Geralt explains. 

“Did you ever finish that book on Redanian poetry?” Jaskier asks, peeking his head around Geralt’s form. “I told you they had dirtier minds than the Temerians.” 

Eskel blinks, and in a second that ready to spring energy is gone. “Jaskier! It is you.” 

They embrace one another, healing old wounds. They’re still marveling at how the other had changed when Ciri walks in. 

Jaskier does that over the top bow for her. “Princess.” 

She lets out a little hiccuping sob. “Jaskier? What? How? You—” She takes a few steps forward only to take another back, hands balling into fists. 

“It’s him,” Geralt assures her. 

“How can you be sure?”

“When you were little, you always begged me to sing Lady Luck at your nameday ceremonies.” He reaches for her. “You grew up so beautifully, Pistachio.” 

Geralt had forgotten Jaskier had called her that. Ciri nearly knocks Jaskier over when she hugs him. Jaskier’s eyes shine with unshed tears as he rests his cheek upon her head. 

.

Geralt’s half asleep, drifting as he sits in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fire, Jaskier in his lap, his arms loosely around his bard. He’s almost out, but he’s fighting it. A part of him is afraid to fall asleep, afraid to awake only to find this all a dream. 

He drifts, clinging to consciousness, picks up bits and pieces of conversation. 

“I thought I was going to lose him,” Eskel says. “Thought I’d have to bury you both in that field.”

“I’m so sorry you went through that,” Jaskier says. 

“—ambert blew up half the lake.”

“I bet Ciri was delig—”

Jaskier shifting brings him back to barely there awareness. “I’m so happy you found your soulmate, you must tell me the whole story! From the top!”

“It’s not that interesting,” Eskel says.

Geralt can’t let his brother get away with that. He flexes his hands, fingertips slipping in the side of Jaskier’s shirt. “When he realized they were soulmates, he turned heel and walked away without saying anything to her.” 

“No!” Jaskier says shocked, sitting straighter, turning a bit to look at Eskel who’d turned red. “You didn’t?”

“Aye, he did,” Cerys said joining them, sitting down next to Eskel. “It all turned out well though, didn’t it, love?”

She was right. 

Things did turn out well after all. 

.

Geralt travels by the sound of Jaskier’s lute, by the songs he sings, by the footsteps on dirt roads. The journey is the same, but they’re the ones different. 

He hears songs he’d almost forgotten about, hears new ones too as Jaskier composes again. He has a song chronicling Eskel and Cerys’ love story with a few embellishments. He sings of love, and romance, and heartbreak, and longing.

Ciri travels with them on and off. It’s strange that she’s at an age where she is independent, she’s finally managed a degree of control on her abilities, she loves them fiercely, but does not need them to be there with her anymore. 

He’s so proud of her, but he worries, wonders when he’ll stop worrying. 

(He never stops worrying.)

Jaskier follows him around, sings in taverns, has his clothes custom made, and warmer than that chiffon Geralt found him in. He takes up wearing a cloak to hide his wings. With the clothing closer to what Jaskier wore _before,_ sometimes Geralt forgets, until he sees the blind eye, the scars, notices the lighter shade of his hair, or his slighter frame. 

Geralt takes contracts. Sometimes Jaskier stays in town, or at a camp. Others Jaskier follows, ignoring Geralt’s order to stay put.

As the weather cools, they go to Novigrad, and meet with Yennefer. It’s another round of explanations, and they’re back to verbally sparring, before tentatively hugging one another. 

He overhears Yennefer whisper, “I’m glad you’re back. For his sake.” 

Eskel joins them, his family with him. Ciri is the last one to arrive. They portal to Kaer Morhen rather than travel there. It’s another round of explanations to Lambert and Vesemir, but they’re rather easily persuaded. 

They’re finally all together again. 

.

It takes a year, but everyone who needs to know, does. 

It takes a year, but Geralt finally trusts that when he wakes, Jaskier will still be at his side. 

.

They’re in the woods, far enough away from the roads that they shouldn’t be disturbed, and Geralt can hear a river nearby. 

Jaskier shrugs the cloak from his shoulders. “I should have practiced glamours more before leaving the Summerland.” Jaskier groans, stretching his wings out. “It’s so fucking hot in that cloak. I’m sweating. Oooh, I hear a lake.”

“River.”

“How can you—you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m getting naked, and I’m getting in that water.” He grabs a bar of lemongrass scented soap from Roach’s saddlebag. “And I’m getting clean.” 

This Roach is not the same Roach Jaskier knew. It was something Jaskier was saddened by, but they were starting to get along.

Roach tries to eat the soap but Jaskier moves out of reach. “Oh no, this is not a snack! What are you feeding Roach that she thinks she should eat this.” Geralt feels his medallion vibrate, and a tree that was certainly not an apple tree a moment ago is now bearing fruit. The horse is delighted, and Jaskier sways a little. 

Geralt reaches out, steadies him. “You okay?”

“Magic is a little harder here,” Jaskier admits. “Come with me?” 

“I should set up camp.”

“Come, get naked!” 

“Jask-”

“I could drown!” He puts the back of his hand to his forehead, and let’s his body fall knowing damn well Geralt will catch him. 

And he does. 

Of course, he does. 

Jaskier opens just his seeing eye. “You’re going to come with me, right?”

Geralt remembers those years when Jaskier was a gaping absence in his heart, and holds him a little tighter. “Always.”  
  



End file.
